Today I found the COOLEST thing on the whole internet.

It involves bunnies, music, AND it's in Italian.

You can find it HERE!

Hurt

The worst moments in life are the ones you don't expect. It just takes one horrible, early morning phone call to ensure that you will answer any early morning phone call that you ever receive. And every time you wake, blinking sleep into your tired eyes to stare at the resounding phone, you'll relive that first phone call, just a little bit. It gets easier the longer you're around, the more phone calls you receive. But that sinking feeling, the voice coming over the line that first time, the hurt in your stomach when you turn to face the wall, to curl your legs into your stomach and wash your face in salty tears, that feeling never goes away.

Early morning phone calls are the worst. The absolute worst. You never recover from them, and they hurt so badly. They're horrible. They become a metaphor for everything that comes afterward, everything you can never forget, and everything that will haunt you for the rest of your life.

I am making the decisions of the rest of my life, and the only sound I'll remember forever is the first shovel-full of dirt falling on the coffin of an eighteen year-old boy.

How can you trust a God after that?

Selling Sex

Vice Magazine. Perhaps the glossiest magazine ever. Shiny pages cramped with indulgent hipsterism, selling glorified prepackaged scene cred. American Apparel appropriately owns the back cover. It screams. "Go directly to Scenedom. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200." But the best thing about both of these pandemics--Vice Magazine and American Apparel--is that both are fabulous simply because they are filled with sex.

I know that this is what makes them fabulous, because this is why my father judges me for them. One day, about to drive off my parents' home, I paused to chat with him through the open passenger side window. He eyed the facedown Vice Magazine in the seat, picked it up, humphed at the raunchiness of the ad, and turned it over as if to verify whether or not I was browsing porn. He scowled, dropped it back on the seat, and went into the house.

But that has nothing on the disdain the time that he caught be reading The Story of the Eye in church.

More on "crack addiction"

One of the girls I work with on Monday morning asked me this past Monday if they'd told me about our Yelp review. "Yeah!" I said, "I even wore makeup that day."

"I think about it all the time now," she replied. "I looked in the mirror and was like, how many colors am I wearing? Is my hair alright?"*

So I guess I'm not the only one.

*This is not verbatim. We had this conversation around 7:00 AM. I cannot remember it that clearly.

More good news.

Fidel has been in contact with the good people at Playboy, they should be figuring out why I haven't been getting my subscription. This means, of course, that I should start getting my subscription... and I will finally have the necessary amount of smut in my life.

Yelp!

Apparently, we got a negative Yelp review on Monday morning, while I was working, that said we looked like "recovering crack addicts."

And I actually put on make up on Monday morning.

Good news!

I have a working computer once more!

I now give you permission to kiss my feet and rub shoulders. Commence!